


Faith of the Seven

by RedSmileyFace



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-25
Updated: 2013-05-19
Packaged: 2017-12-09 12:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/774028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedSmileyFace/pseuds/RedSmileyFace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While healing on the Quiet Isle, Sandor Clegane has philosophical debates with the so-called gods he had been content to ignore. Sandor centric, with mentions of Sansa. Cannon. Rated for foul language.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Crone

**Author's Note:**

> Going for something different here, probably the most plot filled story I have ever written or thought of. It is completely finished, writing wise, and I hope it is enjoyed by the readers (even though there's not much in the way of action or romance).

CRONE: representing wisdom. She carries a lantern and is prayed to for guidance. (A Wiki of Ice and Fire)

"There are no true knights. There are no kind people. And there is no one, NO one, who could ever care for, or love, our face."

"There's our little sister. And what of Sansa?"

"Fuck her. She's as blind as those stories. False as the day she thanked you."

"She meant it. You tested her, she passed: I saved her and she thanked me. You scared her, and then she comforted us. I won't let you hurt her."

"We should have fucking ruined her when we had the chance. Then you would see that she's just like everybody else."

"Only because we would have made her thus. But I think she would have survived even that, would have been strong to overcome your wretched way with her, had you done so."

"The bitch needs to learn her lesson."

"No! You need to heel."

*Growls*

When Sandor opened his eyes, the Elder Brother's dog was playfully growling at his head, obviously ready for the day to begin. Groaning, he rubbed his face, feeling the remnants of his dream fade, thankful that at least it had not been another one of fire. Still, it had confused him; never had he been so at conflict with himself, it manifesting in his sleeping moments.

Deciding to forget about it for the moment, he scratched the mongrel's ears, slowly moving from the lumpy bed. After rubbing his maimed thigh of it's stiffness, he ate a modest breakfast left by the Elder Brother sometime during predawn, thankful for a hot brew of grog to wake his senses. Soon enough, he moved to the field set aside for the dead, and started to shovel; but not before the dog nipped at him affectionately, and ran to its master.

Each day started thus, and continued to dusk. The work was mindless, strengthening, and tiresome. Though the spade was balanced differently, his hands long used to the blade welcomed its weight, and his arms relished the exercise digging brought.

The end of the day brought him back to his modest hovel, where the Elder Brother had left another modest meal, with some mulled wine. Cheap, poor vintage wine, but warm nonetheless. It was not enough to get drunk on, or even tipsy; but enough to ease the aches and soothe the dreams.

And, until the previous night, it did both. He wondered if he was to have another such dream again this night. Shrugging, preparing to have another row with himself, he stretched his arms as his caretaker taught him. Then his upper body, and his lower back, groaning with the blissful pain it brought. His leg stretches went slow, and brought sharp pain to one thigh, but it was less then the previous night, he noted.

The Elder Brother also wanted him to meditate during the evening, but most nights he ignored the suggestion. He fully intended to do so again, but he found himself seated on the cot, staring at the single candle burning at the table, unable to say why he was drawn to it at that time. Sometimes the fire reminded him of his brother; other times of the young lady, kissed by fire, that he had once protected. This night, only the flame entered his mind, as it should be, light and warm.

A rapping at the door startled him. Before he had a chance to consider ignoring it, it opened, revealing an old woman, one that he recognized.

"Granny?"

"If that is who you see me as."

"What? Speak plain old woman, who in buggering hells are you?"

The old woman chuckles, "I am of the Seven. It is you who sees me thus, my son. I am but a fragment of the true gods, all who are one but many, and no man sees but what he believes. Perhaps, in the future, when all this is said and done, we will meet again under a Weirwood."

"What do you want with me, Crone? When all what is said and done?"

"Come, follow me." With little reason, or willpower, to do otherwise, Sandor follows the old woman out of the hut, observing her silhouette cast by the candle she picked up from his table. Indeed, she was the spitting image of his grandmother, the first "Lady Clegane", whom he had known as a boy, and who had died before he was maimed. However, he had never known her to wear humble septa's clothing.

Soon they are walking towards the kennels of Clegane Keep. Dog barks and growls can be heard as they near. Growling himself, Sandor asks, "What are we doing here?"

"We are here to start your journey. I am to guide you to the first step, to warn you of the trials you will take in the coming nights. Take comfort, for I will always be at your side."

Sandor takes the candle she hands to him, which has somehow turned into a lantern, casting a brighter light upon their surroundings. The crone walks to the dogs, petting them; but in the shadows is one who refuses to come closer, refuses to stop growling. He knows what's wrong with the dog, as easy as blinking, but still he is automated to ask, "What's wrong with that one?"

"He has been harmed most wrongly, and refuses to trust anymore; would rather bite the hand that feeds. But all can be saved. Just the right amount of patience and kindness can bring this pup back to kindness." Adopting a sweet cadence, she whispers, "Here, hound, here!"

The dog comes forward, scars up and down it's whole head, some gashes along his body offer proof of abuse it's no wonder he is angry and distrustful. But when the old woman pets his head, Sandor feels calmness running down his body, relaxing him as never before, as if he himself were the dog, and not the man standing beside the Crone.

She caresses the scars. "Each night, seven times, you will be visited by an aspect of the Seven, since that is what influences you now. As with me, they will take on the form of someone you know, but, unlike me, not always someone you trust, so take care to separate person from deity."

"Why?"

"You have a role to play in the game, one that I would see you embrace, instead of having to resign yourself to. It will not be easy, this journey nor that role, but, perhaps, it will bring you a measure of peace my son."

"Why do you care, woman?"

"It is not for this aspect to tell you. But, you are my son; I do care, despite your lack of faith." And she lightly slapped his face. "Now wake up. Tomorrow night begins the journey for true." And she slapped him again, turning into the Elder Brother standing above him in his cot, worry etched in his face....

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When the Crone speaks of all religions being one, only different with the people: that idea is inspired by "Mists of Avalon", penned by Marion Zimmer Bradley


	2. Mother

MOTHER: Representing motherhood and nurturing. She is prayed to for fertility or compassion, and is depicted as smiling with love, embodying the concept of mercy. (A Wiki of Ice and Fire)

His dreams haunted him throughout the day. After Sandor assured Elder Brother that he was succumbing to nothing more then nightmares, he continued the day as normal. But he could not get the Crone nor his Hound out of his mind.

He did not want to go back into the world, not when he had failed miserably. Not just with the one he wanted to help, but also when another wolf slipped through his fingers. He wanted death, and did not fear it. The monotony of this new life was as good as, so he thought.

His brain had been numb ever since he woke from the Elder Brother's ministrations of his injured leg, but now he could not get thoughts of the Little Bird out. She flitted from one end to the other of his brain, causing him bouts of anger and grief, all in one day. How he had wanted to break the veil of naivety from her, and, at the same time it seemed, wanted to shield her from all harm. Memories of their interactions plagued him, and he wondered, for the first time, if the role that the Crone spoke of involved Sansa.

Ah, but he was damaged goods, an ill choice to be anyone's champion, let alone being his own redemption, as the Crone spoke of. If death took longer, so be it. He was content to while the time digging graves till one was appointed for him.

He begged the Elder Brother for an extra portion of wine to help with the nightmares, and was granted his request. He felt his eyes falling while stretching, that he barely hit his pillow and he was sleeping.

He felt feminine hands upon his brow, testing for a fever, before caressing some locks of hair away. "My son," spoke a familiar woman, "It is time to wake up."

He opened his eyes, gasping as he beheld Cersei. He scrambled away from her, almost falling off the bed in his haste to grab steel, but there was none close by.

"Calm yourself, son; I am not really Cersei, a poor imitation of true motherhood. However, she is the one whom you think of the most when 'mother' is mentioned. Not even you own mother can you think of. It is sad." And the Cersei look-a-like shakes her head remorsefully.

Soon enough, she looks to him again, a graceful and kind smile now forming on her face, the likes that he has never seen the real Cersei wield. "How do you feel, my son?"

Incredulous, Sandor can do no more then take stock of his situation. With childhood hands he reaches to his face, feeling the tight bandages over weeping burns, smelling aloe mixed with a burned flesh odor. His good eye looks at his childhood room, noticing the rays of light that stream through, and the flowers that his well wishers have brought. Coming back to the now concerned Cersei, he speaks, with a voice much too high to be his, "This is all wrong."

Cersei chuckles, light, not mocking, "It is far too right, my son. One should rather say, 'this is how it should have been.'"

Moving his lanky body, already tall for a boy of only seven names days, from the bed to the window, he looks out towards the void of light, finally resigning himself to the fact that he is dreaming despite his best efforts.

"You need to forgive yourself, son, have mercy on yourself." She speaks from behind him.

"I should have taken her. Forced her even. I could have protected her better then anyone!"

"That path could have been taken, yes. That path might not have ended so badly either, but this path you are on now is better, if you remember not to stray."

"Speak plainly, woman."

The Mother sighs, "You need to learn. Sansa needs to learn. Separately is better, to realize things that could not have been done otherwise. You needed to learn gentleness and a willingness to help others, not just the one. She needs to learn you are better then all the rest, and only through the failings of others can you be comparably better."

"That's all I am, just 'better'. She deserves so much more."

Cersei gets up to stand behind him, grabbing his shoulders and turning him around. "You are twisting our words to suit your vulnerabilities. See them, and recognize they are holding you back from fulfillment. Had you taken her before, anger and feelings of unworthiness would cloud your judgment. Her sensibilities and prejudices against nature and man would have harmed her. Now you, and she, have the chance to learn, and to fulfill your destinies once you are rejoined."

"What are they?"

"We can not tell you your destinies, in any aspect. We are but shining the light on the proper path."

"You should fucking do it more often."

She laughs lightly at his anger and vulgar language, not insulted in the least. As if she were his fellow drinking companion, and not a dainty lady. Her response calms him somewhat, releasing the tension and expectation of a harsh rebuttal.

"We find that things usually fall into place. You, son, need more comfort then actual guidance. You have the gifts, and the tools; but lack the convictions. More so then any other, but you are also needed, more so then others. That is why we have shown ourselves to you. Sansa will have you to guide her, but who does the rabid dog listen to?"

He hangs his head in shame. Cersei caresses his un-bandaged cheek, as his own mother would have, if he but remembered. "There is naught but the future. Cast out the past, do not let what went before dominate you at present: learn from it, and conquer it. Listen now... "

She hugs Sandor to her, gently rubbing his back as well, allowing themselves to sit upon the floor. He finds himself hugging her back, memories of his real mother peaking through his subconscious. "We know you have not known much mercy in your life, or have you bestowed it to others. This past that I show you is not to mock you, my son, but to show that we gods do pity you, and would give you mercy, if we could."

"Why can't you?" Sandor asked, tears falling from his un-bandaged eye.

Cersei sighed. "That is a philosophical debate that you are not ready for, my son."

"Will I ever know?"

"Perhaps. You might even succeed in your destiny that we wish for you, and would then be more open to what we would have to say… One thing at a time, my son."

There is silence for a while, Cersei rubbing his back with hands far gentler then the real Cersei has. He cries into her gown, and he feels that his soul is freed of some pain. He feels lighthearted, as if he were to float away from the dream soon. Looking up from her waist, his view is blurry with tears, and he can imagine the Mother is not Cersei, but a fragmented memory of his own mother.

"I love you, mother."

The woman caresses his cheek, "It is time to wake up, my son." And he does. Tears are still in his eyes, and he remembers things he hasn't thought of in ages. That of the time he was burned, shunned, and badly healed. That of a mother who did very little to help, if at all, and failed to do so. He had hated her for it, but now he forgives her of her inability to help. It was not her fault.

Perhaps it was not his own fault, when it came to the Little Bird. Perhaps.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I know that one of the characters yet to be seen is strongly influenced by Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol", but I failed to say that, in some way, this whole story is inspired by said story, as a reviewer caught on to and reminded me :) . Good stuff. Also, of the 8 chapters this story has, I think this is the weakest. But that could be me. I hope it was enjoyed!


	3. Father

FATHER: Representing judgment. He is depicted as a bearded man who carries scales, and is prayed to for justice. (Wiki of Ice and Fire)

The next evening, Sandor "awoke" in his childhood home again, and all that he dreamt before, was here too. Except for the Mother, she was not here.

Sandor moves towards the table and chairs besides the empty fireplace, taking a chair across from the late Lord Eddard Stark. The man has not changed much from reality to dream, but Sandor cannot recall him ever holding scales (which were golden and placed on the table between them). His beard was fuller, and where he once wore the pin of the "Hand", there was a hammer pin, its handle extending to sword point and rays of light extending outwards.

"Are you the warrior?" he asked Lord Stark.

"No. When you think of Stark, do you really think of his sword?"

Sandor snorts. "No. I think of his daughters. I think of how any woman would be lucky to have that man as a father; men are more like to be good fathers to sons, and not daughters. Sansa and Arya were lucky, even if their father was an honorable fool."

Eddard's expression goes hard, the scales tipping away from Sandor of their own accord. "Honor is not foolish."

"It cost him his life, he trusted the wrong people."

"Honor and trust: nothing foul can come from those words. His downfall was pride. If you condemn a man, be sure you do it right. Even then, do not; condemnation is not for you to master. In the end, Eddard was humble, for his daughters' sake, and not a moment too soon."

"Too late, you mean."

"No. He was in time. He now enjoys life beyond. But that is neither here nor there."

"Perhaps," Sandor concedes, "but the way people sprout words like 'honor' makes me want to spill their guts. What a damn joke."

"Do you condemn honor, then?"

Sandor sighs, "No." the scales even out.

"Good. It is good that you admit it. This belief was not always the case for you, was it not, my son?"

"No."

"You need to now admit what changed for you."

Sandor glowers at the Father, not wanting to share such intimate details, or even admit them in the first place. But he found himself speaking anyway, such were dreams; "She happened."

A ghost of smile played on Eddard's face, "'She', who?"

"Sansa. Fuck, the Little Bird and her chirped courtesies. She ... gods, she gave rewards for my honor and kindness, inadequate though I was. And even when she said nothing, I felt... that I did right and did not regret it. And then I... she gave me mercy, me! Dog that didn't deserve it." He hung his head.

"True, you didn't deserve it." and the scale tip towards Sandor. Eddard continued, "No man 'deserves' mercy; it is a gods given right. It can only be taken away; but you should have had it so long ago, and then she gave you that which was rightfully any man who defended her; kindness. Any man can fall when under such duress, but you held back. That is a testament to your strength, and your goodness."

"Spare me, old man. If you really are the Father, then you know how cruel I am."

"Was."

"So? Can the good really outweigh the bad?"

"Where it matters, it does. The cruel deeds you have committed were done in a haze, during war times, and under orders and stress. You may have gone extreme at times, but that was all you knew. Then Sansa came along, and re-taught you better, re-taught you that which was burned away. With the knowledge regained, you have done better. Arya is a further truth to that."

The scales evened out.

"My son," And Eddard grabbed Sandor's shoulder, "there is far to go, but I charge you to continue. For justice to serve, you need to rejoin with Sansa, when the time comes, and defend her along both your paths and destinies. You have already passed judgment in her favor, and now you need to swing the sword in her favor as well."

"Is that's all?" Sandor asks, no small amount of sarcasm present.

The Father smirked, "That's just the start. Next, you will have to learn to respect and honor all others as well."

Sandor snorts, "Not bloody likely!"

The Father keeps a stern face, "Honoring Sansa means more than protecting the girl, it means protecting that which surrounds her."

Sandor, though he understands what the Father has to say, nevertheless wakes up with a scowl on his face, and a short fuse, which no doubt fed his bloodlust and led to his next dream...


	4. Warrior

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I kinda imply that Sandor knows that Jamie killed the Mad King for honorable reasons, and not for selfish ones. I apologize if that's taking too much liberty with his character, but I need that tidbit (or so I tell myself).

WARRIOR: representing strength in battle. He is prayed to for courage and victory. He carries a sword. (A Wiki of Ice and Fire)

The next night was the first time Sandor "woke" into a dream, and he knew exactly how he got there. All day, he had been thinking about his talk with the Father, and resenting the charge that his destiny involved more then protecting Sansa, but others as well.

Well bugger that.

He imagined that the Father had been the real Eddard Stark, and he had a fine time berating the Lord with a fine range of ugly words, all while shoveling. And, still in his mind, he had swung his bastard sword at Stark as well, the only way he could vent his frustration at the fact that he wished Stark had been more smart when it came to dealing with damn Baelish, the fucking Lannisters, and their shitty plots.

Sandor's graves have never been so hastily or viciously dug.

That night, the urge to slash and cut followed him through his evening routine, trailed him to the pillow, and tagged along to the dream world. There, he was whole and unwounded, back in his plain armor, dents and all (including his dog's helm). He was in the middle of single combat against Jamie Lannister upon a nondescript field that spread as far as the eye could see, with grey clouds hanging low.

The last Sandor had heard, Jamie had lost his sword hand and was disgraced as a prisoner. This Jamie was whole, and in gilded armor, though he wore no helmet to cover his flowing golden locks. The Crone's lantern was emblazoned on the chest plate, and the sword, which was magnificent to behold in it's Valyrian sheen, had a rigid set of miniature scales for the hilt. And in case the Warrior ever lost his sword (and the chronicles in the Sept told of such parables), there was a smithy's hammer hanging upon the Warrior's sword belt. All this Sandor saw, and realized that his blood lust was not all encompassing as it is in the real world, as it had been that day, for him to notice such things.

The reason for their fight was unclear, as was the prize to be won. Their swords swung in a deadly dance, arcing in the sky and sweeping low. Sandor's hair was matted to his face, and he felt sweat falling down his back and sides. Jamie was the picture of perfection, neither sweating nor panting.

The Warrior once hit the Hound in the chest with a fisted gauntlet, felling the dog to the ground. To the Hound's confusion, Jamie then stood back, waiting for him to get back to his feet again. Then he waited for the Hound to start the fight anew himself.

Again and again the Hound was pushed or hit to the ground, again and again he got back up. Slowly, blood started to flow as well as sweat, but still Jamie was as whole and unfazed as ever.

Once, the Hound took a knee instead of gaining his feet, questioning the Warrior as to why they were fighting.

"Who are you?" Asked Jamie, ignoring the Hound's question altogether.

"I'm the Hound."

At that response, Jamie raised his sword, and initiated the attack for once. From the ground, the Hound defended himself. From his feet, and mostly backpedaling, did he defend himself, never gaining, never striking a good blow. The next time he fell to the ground, Jamie placed the tip of his sword at his throat, bypassing the gorget that had come undone, asking again who he was.

"What does it fucking matter?"

"Who you believe you are, can influence you. In your case, it is not a good thing. You need to know, and not hide." He stepped back. "When you can yield me your true self, I will stop this fight."

He allowed the Hound a respite to lean on his elbows in confusion, before standing and getting a good grip on his sword again. They were soon singing a song of steel again. Clangs rang through the air, sharp and staccato, and every yell by the Hound was met by a mere grunt by Jamie, the only sign the Warrior was exerting any effort.

Growing frustrated, angry, and resentful at the implication that he hid like a coward, a rush of adrenaline flowed through the Hound, and he found himself holding his ground, and then pounding at Jamie before the Warrior was down to his knees. Sandor was honorably compelled to step away, and allow Jamie the chance to gain his feet again. "You're one to talk, Kingslayer! You bloody know you hide behind false claims! Of all the buggering..." And he sighs to the heavens, unwilling to admit, but being forced to. "You're the truest knight I knew, and that isn't enough."

Jamie smirked. "You forget I am not Jamie. Admittedly, Jamie is hardly the model knight. In your day and age, Ser Barristan would be better for you to admire. Alas, you barely know the man." The Warrior stood and brought his sword before him. "Jamie may hide his honorable nature, but he knows he hides. You do not." And he swung anew.

This time, anger could not help the Hound. He was defeated, and he knew it. Gasping for breath, he fell on a knee under Jamie's blows, and was barely able to block any more. "Yield! I yield."

Jamie stepped back, sword still upraised. "Who are you?"

"You know who I am." the Hound pants.

"I need to know that you know," replied the Warrior.

The Hound sighs, before taking off his dog's helm and flinging it to the ground in frustration; it rolls away, clanging and then disappearing. "I am Sandor Clegane. Man, warrior, sworn shield of Sansa; little that she knows it." Sandor gasps in exhaustion, and whispers, "Little that I know."

Smirking, Jamie sheaths his sword, and helps Sandor stand up. "You have fought longer and more honorably then any man I have tested. You are brave, courageous, and strong. I can see that you are starting to believe in your own worth, instead of seeing yourself as a brute. Good. Your path will go easier once you believe these things implicitly."

"Can I truly save her?"

"Yes." Then the Warrior struck his hand against Sandor's chest, and he fell limply to the ground, gasping awake in his hut. Later, when the Elder Brother question him about his nightmares, Sandor replied that the Hound had died that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DVD Extras: The Warrior is heavily influenced by the story of Jacob wrestling with God, found in the Bible. I was just going to make it so Sandor was fighting Jamie (Jamie was always the Warrior in my mind once I started this), but to what purpose? Then I remembered about the story of Jacob, and I thought it was fitting. I won't bore you with what I researched about what Jacob learns while wrestling God, but suffice to say, it leant a lot to this chapter.


	5. Maiden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter that started it all! Originally thought of the Maiden visiting Sandor, in a little romantic fic (that will now never happen). But why would she visit him? Why would any of the gods visit him? Many... maaaaanny thoughts later, and here we are... Thanks again for reading! :)

MAIDEN: Representing innocence and chastity. She is usually prayed to to protect a maiden's virtue (A Wiki of Ice and Fire), and for comfort and encouragement. (RedSmileyFace)

Sandor decided he did not want to dream this night. He was tired of the shit that the gods were putting him through. It did not matter how much he believed what they had to share with him, he was afraid. Admitting that to his own self was scary, but not as scary as the change that was happening within him.

He was exhausted, emotionally drained. For four nights now, he had been visited by the so-called gods he had spent his life ignoring, and hating.

For such a burden of hate to suddenly come undone left him floundering. The gods, they did not rebuke him, they did not say "We told you so", they did not strike him dead; they were the antithesis of what he deemed powerful gods should probably be. He was left wondering why he listened to them in the first place, these peaceful and quaint deities, and he knows that had it been other then in dreams, he would not have heard at all. And even then, his dreams would not have happened unless there was, as the Father alluded to, something to open the lock upon his ears.

The gods had always been there, ready and waiting for him to listen. Still he wouldn't have listened at all, but for the fact that they reached out to him. Apparently, he was destined, along with Sansa, to affect the whole of Westeros.

The burden of hate may have lifted somewhat, but only to be placed with the burden of caring. He felt as the once shackled man, where the lock was broken and the guard dog no longer there, but freedom led to a field of fire. Freedom was not free.

On the one hand, he could brave the fire and embrace the trials facing him, with the promise of a vague rewards. On the other hand, he could stay safe. Safe, here, on the Quiet Isle, where he was trapped. Yes, trapped as something he was not anymore, trapped within his own making because he was always free to leave. He was at peace here, such as it was, and it was a peace he had never known before. Why did he need to search for a better kind of peace?

All of a sudden, it mattered if he fucked up, if he did one or two things wrong, and very quickly he was finding out that the burden of doing right was much worse then the burden of hating. At least with hate, there was only one's own self to worry about, and bugger everybody else. If he stayed the path of the gods design, he would have to be sure Sansa was safe and protected, and also worry about what their actions together would affect her family, the North maybe, perhaps it's influence upon the Wall, and most definitely it's place in the political arena.

Sandor was no politician. He could be a sworn shield. But the world would need more from him now, and he wishes that that mantle of responsibility could be given to someone else. Fuck that shit, he thought. Fuck Westeros. Fuck the king. Fuck the north and it's snows. Fuck the Starks, and fuck Sansa too.

But he did not want to damn Sansa to the fate he had escaped; he had only ever wanted to protect her, misplaced as his original reasons might have been. But caring for her meant more then protecting her person, it meant her home, family, and world. She would flourish in a better world, not within any four walls he might surround her with. She deserved a better place for her to fly within, not another cage pretending at being a shelter.

He only wanted to protect her though, and shit on the rest; so the battle raged within him, his indecisiveness a new brand of battle to fight. His peace, or hers? He could not see that her peace would lead to his own, or else this decision would have been child's play; alas, he knew not what the future would bring, and that is always a fearsome void. He could reach no conclusion with this, so he decided: fuck it.

For this night, if he could delay sleeping for just one night, he could just... fuck the gods.

He did not drink the wine the brother's gave him, deciding the less wine, the less likely the pain would leave him, the more apt he would stay awake. For the same reason, he did not do his nightly stretches. He watched the hours go by seated in his chair, dismissing the comfort of the cot, the same time dismissing the stiff and sharp pain in his leg, and upon his heart.

When the hour of the wolf started, there was a knock at his door. "WHAT?!" he barked.

Sansa entered. Sandor's breath hitched, taking in her as she was the first time he ever saw her, with stars in her eyes and innocence coming off in waves, that which truly called him to her. The girl before him did not look naive, however, and a small smile graced her features, directed at him.

Her modestly cut silken dress was as blue as her eyes, and he saw silken slippers on her feet as her dressed swished upon her approach towards him. Her hair was shimmering brightly as the candle on his table was, and her eyes, the fountain of her beauty, shone with what could only be described as adulation. When she reached him, she knelt before him, supplicant to his lead, placing her hands upon his unwounded knee in affection.

"I wish we had more time together," she whispered.

"If I had known you were coming..." He barely choked out.

"Yes, sleeping during the hour of the Nightingale would have been appropriate, and would have given us more time. Though dreams take on their own times, we will be forced with less."

"You are not real?" He asked, reaching for her hair, but afraid to touch, to make this unbelievable delightful apparition disappear.

She laughs lightly, flirty and slapping his chest in a teasing matter, "No, my knight."

He cringes, retracting his hand, "I am no knight."

"Silly!" Giggling, she places her chin upon her hands, still gracing his knee. "You are SANSA'S knight. You protect her, are true to her, and are gentle. All that a knight needs to be, you are." She looks to the side, pensive, "Well, to one person at least." She looks back to him, smile radiant, "That one person will be your salvation, so it is enough."

He has no desire, as in the past, for her to be broken of her innocence. He can see her strength; can see the gods though they take the form of his Little Bird. Her stance, had it been real, would have sparked such raging lust and anger at her naivete and proximity, but in his dreams, this is a perfection that soothes him.

She starts rubbing circles on his maimed thigh, and it's mere friendliness, rather then wanton, and he returns the favor by caressing her cheek. She kisses the insole of his palm, before offering more advice. "When the time comes, my knight, you must be ready to rescue her. This island has been good for you, and you will be tempted to not leave. You worry, and fret, and wonder if the decision to leave would be foolhardy and stupid. It will not be so, my knight.

"The Smith will offer inspiring words, but I tell you that I need you, SHE needs you. Do not think to let others do your job. You may think they would be better, but you are better when it comes to protecting her mind while letting her know, protecting her soul while not disillusioning her, and protecting her... innocence." And here she blushes. Sandor smirks. "If all the gods blushed as prettily as you did, Maid, I think there would be more followers."

Sansa smiles wanly, "If only men were as kind as you are now. You know it, from your own past, that men are not often persuaded by mere kind innocence."

He frowns. "I... I'm sorry."

"That is the first you have ever said so, to person or god." She stands now, between his legs and grabs his face, hand upon each cheek, smiling encouragingly as he gently grabs at her waist. "You were already on your way, but now we have further proof of redemption. Here's my favor to think on when the time comes..." And she kisses him. It's chaste, and tastes of sweet wine; one that deepens when she licks his lips, and he offers himself up to her, supplicant to her lead.

It's the best dream, even better then dreams of having the real Sansa (there she was always unwilling), and he does not wish to wake for once, but waken he does. The Maiden's kiss is still upon his mouth, and his maimed thigh is not stiff for once, though he slept upon an uncomfortable chair. He thinks, what had there been to worry about? Any reward, as small as they might be, would be enough, coming from his Little Bird.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DVD Extras: I go on and on with the fact that Sandor doesn't like his peace on the Quiet Isle being undone by his "visitors", but hopefully that speaks more to his character, rather then detracts from the story. Without it, I feel that Sandor would seem to be taking these visits a little to easily. I am currently reading Victor Hugo's "Les Mis", where the inspiration for writing Sandor's inner turmoil comes from. Monsieur Hugo writes beautifully of the human soul, of its ugliness and its beauty. The Hunchback and Jean Valjean, while neither are a perfect Sandor, are relate-able. I like both authors, but I feel Martin gets more of the action and intrigues, while Hugo writes more of the human depths. IF Sandor does rehabilitate in the books, I believe it'll be left between the lines, so I felt the urge to write it out here. Anyway, this chapter was originally just the Maiden's section, until I started reading Les Mis, and I think the chapter's awesomeness was made even better with the additional angst.


	6. Smith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The trouble with Seven Gods, it seems like I'm repeating some lessons that Sandor already learned... While I still like this chapter (mostly for the Smith himself), and feel that it does have SOME new stuff for Sandor to digest, I would understand if readers found this... stale maybe? Especially since I borrow lines from the books and shows here. Plus, it's hard to find the words to "inspire" our hard-assed Sandor. Also, this chapter has suffered the most rewrites. :/ Yeah, I'd take some honest criticism for this one, or reassuring words. Either way ... thank you for reading!

SMITH: representing crafts and labor. He is usually prayed to when work needs to be done, for strength. He carries a hammer. (A Wiki of Ice and Fire)

Driftwood was calm, and Sandor was smiling. Sandor wondered if the horse was dreaming of the gods as well, and if the sweet Maiden had also visited him. Perhaps it was in the form of a young mare, fine of coppery coat and sweet of temperament. Snorting, he finished brushing Driftwood's black coat, and reached for an apple in the folds of his robes.

When the apple was near finished, Sandor heard some clanging behind him. It was neither sharp nor random, but rhythmic and resounded through the air.

Patting Driftwood in farewell, Sandor made his way to the back of the stable, following the sounds and seeing an annex that he never noticed before. Rounding the last stall, he is hit by a wall of heat and light.

Once his eyes became accustomed, and his fears under control, the first thing he became aware of was a large shadow upon the wall. It spread its girth and height to great proportions, taller and more daunting then any man (or his shadow) had a right to be. However, when he followed the shadow to it's origin, he found a small man, a man he knew and despised, though grudgingly admired; he saw the imp, Tyrion Lannister.

Strangely enough, the dwarf was not hammering on an anvil, but was leaning against it, arms crossed. Where he had once worn the pin of the "Hand", he wore a pin of a hammer; a circle of light rays extending from it, and the handle forming a sword tip. The huge shadow, which first drew Sandor's eye, was indeed Tyrion's, but moved as if it was it's own entity; pounding away at the anvil's shadow, creating what, he could not guess (though there was an incomplete set of scales upon the floor). Even the shadow's nose was distinctly Tyrion's. Though Sandor had heard the half-man had lost his nose, the dwarf before him was as whole as he had ever seen him, down to lack of shadows around his eyes.

"Well done, Clegane." Tyrion breaks the silence.

Almost growling, Sandor replies, "I didn't do it for you."

"Whom did you do it for?"

This time he did growl. "Certainly not for the fucking king!"

Tyrion shook his head, chuckling. "I see it will be as always," and he looked again at Sandor, "Tyrion will get no straight answer, or friendly conversation, with you."

Sandor barks a laugh. "Tyrion won't. I see your point, you are not Tyrion, but the Smith."

Tyrion does a slight bow, "At your service."

"Shouldn't I be at yours, god?" Sandor mockingly asks.

"Ah." And Tyrion points a finger to the air, "One would think, would they not?"

"You are more cryptic then your counterparts, and I didn't think it bloody possible!"

Chuckling again, the Smith replies, "Then let me spell it out for you, brother. Religion is not one-way, nor is it two-way, but as many people there on the earth, there are paths. One could almost say that we have the 'broadest view' of things. Which is why we don't help as often as you mortals might wish."

"Then why are you even helping me?"

"You and Sansa are at a focal point that will affect almost the whole of Westeros. You are not the only ones with this burden, but you, Sandor, are in jeopardy of missing the bulls-eye completely, with far reaching ramifications, so we have come to help you."

Shaking his head in confusion, he turns away from Tyrion, attempting to make sense of it all. Sansa, Littlefinger, the Starks, the Lannisters, Gregor... his sister: all and more were damaged and hurt with the game, and the all powerful, broad-viewed gods couldn't help? It… just did not make sense.

As if Tyrion could read his mind, he came to Sandor and reached up to touch his shoulder. "Brother, you know how cruel this world is. But you also know of your own change of heart, happening right now. These past few days, you have felt our mercy, our judgment, and our compassion. Would you deny that to everyone?"

Barring his teeth towards the Smith, "Gregor." he all but sneers.

Tyrion shakes his head, "That is why the Father has told you not to judge." Waddling back to the anvil, he picks up the unfinished scales, one side completely unbalanced by the other. "This is your view, any mortal's view really, of what you think. You only know of Gregor's madness, and meanness. You do not know how he came to be, or what his mind thinks, or if there is any weakness in his armor, so to speak. There is always a chance for redemption in every person, that is why we do not interfere when most would wish."

Sandor snorts, "You wait too long for some people."

Tyrion sighs, placing the scales back on the ground. "Even in death, there are some true moments."

Sandor turns away again, disdain evident in his stance. Sighing, Tyrion comes to him again, turning the other to face him eye-to-eye. "Perhaps in the future, you will believe, or revisit. There is even a strong chance you will bring your brother to justice. For now, though, we must talk of what must be done today."

"Sansa." Sandor whispers.

"Yes. You need to go back out there."

He'd rather say, "Fuck you!" but in his dreams, he cannot hide. The truth is, the Maiden had already convinced him to be ready. What he says instead is, "I'm afraid."

"I symbolically work day and night in the forge, my metaphorical body is covered with soot, followers call me the 'burned-god', yet here I am, always doing what needs doing. What does this make you?"

"Aren't you supposed to be inspiring me?"

Tyrion laughs, and digs out a flagon of wine, taking a sip before tossing it to Sandor. "When has inspired speeches ever roused you?"

Sandor snorts, before appreciating the finest summer wine he's ever had, reminiscent of the Maiden's kiss. "You're right. I'd roll my eyes. It's the adrenaline, the promise of the fight, and the smell of blood. Killing is the sweetest thing there is."

"Really?"

Sighing, Sandor closes his eyes, a hurt look crinkling his brow. "No. My sister was the sweetest thing there was. The day she died was the day I... lost the reason to be true." Opening his eyes to glare at Tyrion, he snarls, "The day our brother took her life, the day you fucking gods let it happen. If ever there was a perfect time to interfere..." huffing, he abruptly turns away again.

He hears Tyrion sigh and shift, before his stunted hand falls down on his shoulder, raw strength rippling underneath the grip. "We do no 'let' things happen. As we said before, there are too many views to take. It is for Gregor alone you should feel justified anger at, not us. Sansa herself, she has lost her own father, yet still she prays to us, in one form or another.

"But I will not reach you today. Let us remember this for another day... The day your sweet sister died, you lost yourself, lost any and all reason to do the right thing. But now?"

Sandor turns, looking up to the Smith, "I once told Little Bird that all a man needed was wine, or a woman. I was trying to tell her, with my rude ways, that all I need to keep going was a worthy woman, that now all I need is her. Not as a woman to fuck, but as a woman who offers respect and friendship..." He pauses, unsure, then whispers, "A woman to love." He shakes his head, looking to the ground again, "Sansa is the sweetest woman I know, now. She has awoken long dead thoughts of honor."

Tyrion offers a look of sympathy for the man, "You once could have done anything for your sweet sister, and would even have braved the fires twice for her, if you had been able." He clasps Sandor on the shoulder, "As these past few nights have shown you, Sansa is your new sweet sister. Mayhaps she'll be more, mayhaps less; but that doesn't take away the fact that you already know that for her, fear is easily overcome."

The Smith is greeted by a huff and then silence. The man steels himself, remembers her kiss, then looks up to Tyrion, as tall and broad as his shadow, "How will I know where to go, what to do, how to convince her of my true intentions?"

Tyrion pats Sandor's shoulder, and then walks to the anvil, picking up his hammer and moving in tandem with his shadow, finally. "So long as you wait and keep a watchful eye for the opportune moment, all things will fall into place."

Sandor snorts at the appropriately vague answer, and goes to swig at the wine, but spilling it on his face. He awakens, finding himself lying on a bale of hay, Driftwood sniffing at his hair and snorting in his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DVD Extras: The Smith was always Tyrion, because in my mind, he got things done in a crafty way, especially when he was the under-appreciated Hand of the King. But he is not a perfect Smith for that reason alone, but also based on my knowledge of the greek god, Hephaestus, he's an ugly privileged person (god) who is kind to the peasantry (mortals). AND, based on what Wikipedia tells me, most mythological smiths are deformed in some way, and the Egyptian god of the forge, Ptah, is a dwarf. O_O! Was it a match made in the seven heavens, or what? :D


	7. Stranger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know where my inspiration for the Stranger comes from, look no further then Charles Dickens' "A Christmas Carol". (Oddly enough, I have never read the book, I have only ever seen the movie adaptations...*shrugs shoulders*) As always, thanks for reading!

STRANGER: An exception to the other aspects, the Stranger represents death and the unknown. Worshipers rarely seek favor from the Stranger, but outcasts sometimes associate themselves with this god. (A Wiki of Ice and Fire)

The Stranger comes to Sandor the next night as he digs graves.

The Stranger comes during a moonless night, wearing a black cloak with it's hood up; his presence made known by the blacked out stars behind him, that vague halo of darkness that defined his edge.

Beckoning the man to follow, the blink-and-miss void moved off, not awaiting Sandor's obedience, but assured of it.

And before Sandor knows that he has, indeed, walked, he stands above a wintery field as white as the moon, that which now shows the Stranger in stark relief. The man looks at the god a moment, attempting to glean features, and he can't even tell if the tall figure is wearing black clothing, or is under a perpetual shade that offers no hint. Is he fat? Is he muscular with a large cloak? Is he as any average man is, just of larger proportions?

Not giving anything away, the Stranger just points to the field below, and Sandor looks there again, seeing familiar army formations, and all that went with: fires, tents, brief flashes of steel, unpleasant smells, and jarring sounds.

A flash of fire erupts from the far end, illuminating the enormous Wall that stands silent and ancient. After Sandor recovers from staggering back in fear, after the fire recedes from it's short flight to the night and the Wall disappears again, he notices for the first time three dragons roaming the edge of camp furthest from him. The stranger gestures for him to move closer to the camp, but Sandor begs off, "No! If this is a dream of fucking fire, I do not want it! You can go bugger yourself, and your vision!"

The Stranger stares unimpressed (the shadow underneath the imagined cowl gives such an impression), before he turns and walks away from Sandor. Cold winds follow, harsh and brutal, quick and cutting; Sandor has little strength against such, and he follows despite his misgivings.

Before he knows it, he stands beneath the dragons. He gives a start, but after breath or two of nothing, he calms again. "They do not know I am here." He turns to the god, "Stranger, are we just observers?"

The Stranger does not reply, only moves to turn away. Glancing around the dark broad shoulders, Sandor sees three people as well, talking and gesturing to the dragons. He recognizes one, as dark and brooding as the whole Stark lineage is famous for, whom he had briefly met and observed so long ago, it seemed, while at Winterfell. The other two, silvery in the ethereal night, he can only guess at, "Long lost Targaryens?" He asks the shadow beside him.

The Stranger, as Sandor was quickly becoming accustomed to, ignored him only to turn, yet again. Sandor follows the line of sight, and gasps.

Sansa is there, in this strange vision of what, he knows not. But she is there: beautiful, older, healthy, and strong in her bearing.

Yet she is also limping, whimpering, sallow, sickly yellow, and short of lackluster hair.

Sandor cannot reconcile the fact that she is both, but neither. Who surrounds her is also in question. At times, it seems like two broken blond warriors hold her own broken body up. At other times it seems a dark man with a limp walks behind a strong and healthy Sansa, loyally. Sandor swears that the moon is both there, and not, and he question that the flickering scenes are unable to reach a decision as to what is really happening.

Turning sharply to the Stranger, he practically shouts, "What is going on with her?" Silence greets him. Grunting in frustration, he runs his hands through his hair, "Are your damned visions of what could be, or are what's happening?" He starts pacing on the spot. "No, the others, they said she and I are focal points, and I must wait... why show me this if it's already too late?" Turning again to his guide and daringly jabbing a finger at the god, he shouts, "Who hurts her?"

A cold wind blows, and again the scene changes.

This time, they stand above a grave. Sandor glances around, noticing the devastating ruins of Winterfell, the smoke in the distance, the carcass of a dragon being eaten by white walkers not a hard gallop away. In the other direction, he sees a fleeing army, decimated and weak, a limping dragon following behind, the third completely absent. The snows come to his waist, but cut off just at what looks like multiple graves. Looking down at the one by his feet, he sees an inscription. He has to kneel to see, to read:

"Sansa Stark, may she be free from her pain. Long live the Queen in the North." The year is also inscribed, the upcoming winter is to be her doom.

Choking on his sudden sobs, he turns and grabs at the Stranger's shadowed robes, "No! Tell me this isn't true! Tell me I can stop this!"

The Stranger, oddly gentle, places a hand on Sandor's head, and warmth suffuses through his body. Closing his eyes, he takes it for a measure of peace, before opening them again.

Spring. Though there is still snow on the grown, it barely touches his ankles when he stands again, and the smell is different. He had never noticed that there could be a difference before, but contrasted with the harsh winter of his last vision, he knows, the smell is of spring.

To the one side, there still sits a dragon skeleton, but it has been maneuvered to majestically stand guard, it's maw and talons facing the direction of where the Wall would stand.

To the other, Winterfell is also still in ruins, but not as derelict as it was before. A shifting of the wind, and he stands in the courtyard, next to a yet even older Sansa, a Sansa who survives past Winter, who stands beside an older version of himself. She is talking to his older self, though he cannot hear her, gesturing to the walls and ground around them, no doubt sharing plans for rebuilding.

His breath hitches as she places protective hands on her swelling stomach, and he, his elder self, escorts her from the yard, a smile on his craggy face. "She can have her home." He whispers to the air, but the Stranger nods in assent, "She could be happy, with a good man. And I, I could bask in her happiness. So long as she is happy, I would be content to guard her, and her family, to the end of my days." He turns to the Stranger, "As long as that other vision... of her broken and dead before her time, as long as that does not happen, I could be happy too."

The Stranger just walks away, and Sandor follows.

The last thing he sees is Sansa, not the Queen, but a lady, of the North, sitting amongst a feast in the great hall. There is a silver queen in talks with her, among other people Sandor both recognizes and doesn't. He sees himself: older, brooding, to the side... but content looking.

He sees the smiles, the feasting, the healthy contentment of his Little Bird in the north, and he knows that for this to happen, he will have to save her, not someone else, and will have to await for the appropriate time. He takes a moment to curse patience.

He turns to the Stranger, but the god had vanished. So did the visions of the future: the walls and stone and tables of food and sounds of people. His hands close around the handle of the shovel, and his feet hit the edge of the grave he had dug, a shiver crawling up his spine.


	8. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1) For the final dream, I tried to make it more serious, alas, I was tired of serious dreams. And besides, I bet Sandor is too. So don't mock me too much for it ;) 2) Male cardinals are the red ones I love so much, alas, while females are dull colored :( (don't worry, this note will make sense soon) 3)I have enjoyed writing and posting this... THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR READING! Hopefully it inspires reviews???

A few moons have passed since the Seven had visited Sandor in his dreams. Much of what was before was the same now; but if one could measure such abstract notions, they might find that his heart was lighter, and his morale less bleak. More often then not, he would even take the Elder Brother's advice, and meditate at night.

He always prayed for the Maiden to visit again, though she never did (and neither did the others); and perhaps this marred the point of meditating, but he found that her favor was always with him as he awoke, so perhaps the gods did not mind.

It was true Sandor could no longer deny the gods' existence, though the fancy stories still irked him and all the mindless traditions did not inspire him as of yet. His mind would drift, though perhaps that was best, for he found that that was when he though of the others besides the blushing Maiden: of what they had to say. He still had arguments with them, they through the voice of the patient Elder Brother. Perhaps the gods would be angry that he did not take all to heart, but perhaps they were happy that his path was straighter, and knew it would eventually lead him to a peace he could not know now. But only the ethereal could tell these things.

If those on the physical plane could measure the amount of times he smiled, they would see he did so more often.

If they could measure his senses, they would find them honed, perfected, and sharpened.

If he thought of the seasons, he would find that his taste for spring overshadowed his usual preference for winter.

But only the abstract beings could tell these things, not any earthly man.

He swung the shovel as he would a sword, walking between digging graves, and when he held a blunt sword to practice, the change of balance did not confuse his strong arms, or his steady stance. The brothers, they could see the increase of graves, but not of his strength.

He had listened, he had heard, and now he waited.

His time on the isle had not been devoid of news, and the gods were not the only beings Sandor listened too: the river not only dumped objects, but the isle seemed a hotspot of information, strange as it was. Visitors told their confessions, and as thanks, shared news with the seemingly bored brothers. Even the warrior maiden had given a confession, though that was not her original intent. Sandor had been glad she did not recognize him, but had worried that while she was looking for Sansa, she might get to his little bird first. Very quickly, he was drowning in doubts again. But no sooner had she left, then other news followed.

Peasantry from the Vale of Arryn were making their way south. Some to flock to warmer climes for the coming winter; some came to gather supplies to take back for an event such that hasn't been seen since Lord Arryn married himself. Jon Arryn's heir (should his son Robert Arryn die) was to marry. This one "Harrold Hardyng" was betrothed to one "Alayne Stone", bastard daughter to Petyr... fucking... Baelish.

There was no time to ponder the lack of facts surrounding the wild instinct that Alayne was really Sansa; there was only faith that it was truth.

That night, he dreamed that he was in a copse of flowering trees, a multitude of colorful birds singing in the air. He was a dog, in this dream, but a calm and patient mutt. Though the bird song was musical and entrancing, there was only one bird he wanted to see. He wagged his tail hesitatingly, unsure where to turn, when he saw a lantern floating in mid air. He followed. Soon enough, the lantern led him to a high and old sentinel, devoid of flowers. Upon one of the highest branches, there sat a bright red bird; smaller then a parrot, but bigger then a cardinal. His tail wagged fast now, and he stood on his haunches, barking in excitement. The little red bird floated down from the high branch, singing her song, and soon enough she was teasing the dog, always just out of his reach. He playfully followed her, loping and jumping and giving chase, tongue sticking out of his maw, tail wagging excitedly. And when Sandor awoke, he knew that the time to chase his Little Bird for true had come, if not in such an embarrassingly saccharine way.

That morning: his armor restored, a sharpened sword borrowed, his horse accompanying him, the Hound dead and in heaven chasing godly birds; Sandor Clegane left the Elder Brother with a hand shake and a vow.

By the gods, he will save Sansa. And, mayhaps, save himself too.


End file.
